1
Among the merchandise, Greta found a thin iron bar, rusted at the ends. By its shape, it must have been part of a hydraulic jack once. It weighed much less than she would have liked, but it was what she had. She wielded the piece like an improvised sword and stood before the door.
The minutes trickled by, slow and uncomfortable. Her arms began to grow heavy. She slid to the floor, letting the bar fall, emitting a metallic sound. She crossed her legs and pulled the newspapers closer, trying to understand who—or what—she was dealing with.
The reports painted the profile of a sadistic killer, someone who murdered even when he didn't need to. One of the victims had been killed while sleeping in his own bed, in a shack behind a food truck.
The kind of death that doesn't require strength. Just a cold decision, an obscure impulse. Greta felt a shiver run up her spine. What kind of monster looks at a sleeping face and decides to crush it with a rock?
The thought awakened something inside her. Something solid, ancient, primitive—her survival instinct. She wasn't going to give up. Not after everything she'd been through. Not now.
She grabbed the iron bar again. She stood up with effort. Maybe the man wouldn't come back. Maybe he'd given up. Trying the doorknob was instinctive. She turned it. The door gave with a low click noise.
Her heart raced. She left the storage room on tiptoe. The back door was locked with a heavy padlock. She'd lose too much time trying to break that. Time she didn't have.
The other room, to the left, unpromising. The wood of the half-open door was too thin. She doubted it gave access to the street.
That left the main entrance. The store was empty now. No sound. No sign of life. Just the cold lights and the hum of a refrigerator turning on and off.
Greta lowered her arm. Maybe the stranger had fled. Maybe he'd realized it was risky to stay there. Maybe...
Her body was yanked from the floor with a jolt. An arm of stone wrapped around her from behind. A rough, damp cloth covered her mouth and nose. A chemical, sweetish smell invaded her lungs.
She fought. Kicked the air with her feet, tried to bite, scratched the man's arm with her nails. Her body was a fierce animal, but the air was becoming poison. The burning in her lungs became pain. And the pain became emptiness.
Her legs went limp. Consciousness slipped down an invisible drain. The world collapsed. And took Greta with it.
2
When her eyes opened, the landscape was already different. Gray commercial buildings paraded past the window in front of her, and the sky, still pale, seemed an uncertain promise of sun.
A wide building passed by the window slowly. She knew that place. It was a car dealership. When the buildings gave way to billboards and advertisement signs, she was certain. They were arriving in Torres, the state's last beach town. The city where she'd dreamed of having a hearty breakfast, in some hotel smelling of clean sheets and sea breeze.
The memory made her eyes flood with tears. There, in that city, was her parents' summer house, with a huge veranda overlooking Violão Lagoon. At twelve, Greta spent her days cycling alone through the adjacent streets. She'd go from the avenue to Prainha, with a book stuffed in her bag. She wanted to read facing the ocean, but she almost never could. The sea was bigger than any story, bigger than any silence.
She used to put the book away then. And afterward she'd just stare. Entire hours would dissolve there, without her noticing. Then she'd get on the bicycle again and follow the ritual: the detour to the lighthouse.
Of all human constructions, it was the lighthouse she loved most. Not because it indicated danger—but because it signaled a return, announced solid ground. The idea moved her back then, and it still did now.
Tied up in the back seat of her own car, she concluded that these memories were her version of the seven-second film that runs through the mind of each person about to die. Greta no longer had the strength to scream. Fear gave way to absolute exhaustion, to a drowsiness difficult to fight.
She knew why she was being taken there. Torres was the final destination. A discreet enough place. A motel, perhaps. A final act before the void of death.
She wanted to ask the stranger one thing. Just one. But the gag prevented any sound. Her request would be simple: that he pass by the lighthouse. She wanted to see it one more time. That was all.
She closed her eyes. She remembered something she'd read once: that sometimes we reach our destination by trying to flee from it. Now the statement seemed true, painfully true.
But she didn't regret it. She tried. She left the unhappy life she had behind. She fought. And there was a quiet dignity in that. A shy pride that warmed her chest even with darkness on the way.
She fell asleep with that comfort. And dreamed of the sea.
3
Since crossing the city entrance, Daros had seen a black sedan appear and disappear in the rearview mirror. The vehicle stayed far enough away that he couldn't be sure it was always the same car. But it appeared frequently enough for his instincts to light up like high beams in the fog.
He didn't accelerate. He didn't want to draw attention, much less indicate that he'd noticed the company.
He followed the most obvious route, pretending to be a distracted driver looking for a hotel to rest.
He circled calmly through Torres's central streets, letting the tires roll slowly over the asphalt still damp from the mist. Hotel facades appeared and disappeared, illuminated by bluish signs and white lamps hanging from the canopies.
On Barão do Rio Branco street, he slowed down even more. The rearview mirror showed headlights in the distance. Fixed. Patient.
Daros passed three hotels and slowed in front of an inn. He remained there for a few seconds. He didn't get out. He had no intention of getting out. He didn't turn off the engine. He just looked, like someone evaluating the establishment or imagining the room rate. He was casting the bait.
He made the loop on Beira-Mar street. The sea was a dark bulk to the left, dotted with distant lights. When returning down the avenue, he caught a detail in the metallic reflection of the glass: a black Civic, parked in front of a restaurant. The rearview mirror, lighter, stood out from the rest of the accessories. It indicated it had been replaced.
He passed the vehicle slowly, without turning his face. He counted the seconds mentally, the time needed for the driver to turn off the key. To relax the body and loosen vigilance.
At the end of the block, he made a sharp turn. The movement was quick, almost violent. The car roared in response and shot toward the rural area, where darkness was a more efficient ally than any tactic. By the time the other driver noticed, when he tried to resume the chase, Daros would already be far away.
He'd be out of reach. And once again in control.